Let Me Play The Fool
by Wolf in the Walls
Summary: The story of a single BLU Scout - all alone. Playing the fool, let himself be the sacrifice for others to fly free
1. Chapter 1

"Ye don't own someone when yer in love with 'em, laddie

"Ye don't _own_ someone when yer in love with 'em, laddie."

The BLU Demoman took another swig from his never-ending bottle, sinking back into a chair. The Scout was seated not too far away, backwards on the chair, arms crossed, chin rested on the back of his hand. He didn't usually listen to the drunken Scotsman, but he had nothing better to do. And the ramblings of a hammered Cyclops were usually pretty entertaining.

"Now…. ye listen well, lad…"

The Scout's name was Tucker, but everyone was "Lad" or "Laddie" to the Demoman.

"I know yer a'w happy wit that Engie… jus' 'member…" The Demoman was starting to slur more than usual, and he took another swig, starting to sway a bit on his chair. "…That he's gotta be happy too."

With that piece of profound wisdom given, the Demoman promptly dropped his bottle and passed out in an alcoholic blackout. Scout smirked to himself and stood up, stretching his twiggy, spindly frame. Leaving the unconscious, Scottish Cyclops to his nap, the Scout opened the fridge and popped open a can of soda before he started down to do what he did best – pester someone. But he had to be careful. The Medic would skin him alive, so he was out of the question. As were Heavy and Soldier. Those three were best avoided. Demoman was passed out drunk, Sniper was best left alone, rather than be pulled in by his magnetic Aussie charm, which also lead to a swift Medic-enduced death. The Spy wasn't much of company anyways, but that was expected. That left the Scout's favorite person, the Engineer.

Upon reaching that decision, the scout trotted down for Engie's workshop, soda in hand. Scout knocked at the door, a little puzzled when he didn't get a response. It was almost 5PM, he should be in. He tapped again before he opened the door and looked in. The entire workshop was dark, the light spilling in from the hallway doing nothing to chase shadows away. Scout took another hesitant sip of his soda before he stepped in, fumbling for the light switch.

"Hey, Engie? Gus? You in here?"

He flicked the switch, then a few times, a little worried when the lights did not come in. Scout took a few more steps, the light from the hallway partly obscured by his own shadow. He squinted into the gloom around him, a strange squicking sound breaking the silence as he took a step. His shadow did him no justice, but he knelt down and groped at the concrete floor, feeling something warm and wet. Just as he turned towards the light to inspect what was on his fingertips, the door slammed shut. There was an audible click of a lock, and the barely 20-year-old was wrapped in darkness. The soda can fell from his hand and spilled all over the floor.

"Gus…?"

He smirked, then laughed.

"Very funny, Engie. You got me, har har. Fun times… now just turn the lights on." Scout said, raising his arms in a mock surrender gesture.

Secretly, he was terrified. Secretly, he knew what the liquid on his hand was, even if he didn't see it. He'd been here long enough to know what blood felt like.

"…Gus? Come on, turn on the lights…" He said, starting to lower his hands.

Something shifted in the darkness. Scout spun around, reaching for his pistol, only to find that it was no longer at his side like it should be. It was there earlier, wasn't it? He fumbled around in the black, groping for something that he could use to defend himself against the noises. And then he could smell it, his entire body tensing when it reached him. Cigarette smoke. Not the same smoky scent that came with the BLU Spy's brand. And if it wasn't the same, then…

A rag was pressed tightly over his mouth and nose.

The natural instinct was panic. Scout's hands reached up to pull the hand away, feeling the leather gloves and finely-tailored suit jacket of the RED Spy. His struggles lasted mere moments, his eyelids growing heavy and his mind sinking into unconsciousness.

Pain greeted him when he woke. Indescribable pain in his legs, and his wrists. Someone was touching him. Scout opened one blackened, swollen eye, finding his wrists bound with black electrical tape, keeping him secured to one of the cold metal legs of the work bench. One of the lights was on, revealing the shop in ruin. Tools were scattered about, some coated in blood. There were cigarette butts scattered about, footprints in blood. Blue eyes wandered down to his legs, staring in horror at the damage. The Spy had ripped into his muscles, cutting and tearing, ensuring that he would not be running for a long time. Scout tried to scream, either in pain of for help, only to find the same offending tape over his mouth. He could not see the clock, unaware of how much time had passed. Scout could only lay his head down, closing his eyes. Everything had begun to hurt, in ways he could not begin to describe.

He barely heard the knock at the door, and was only vaguely aware of it opening. He heard someone shouting for the Medic, then he felt someone cut the tape from his wrists, revealing dark bruises. The tape was pulled from his lips, hands pulling him away from the work bench, mindful of his legs. Voices asked questions, faces went in and out. Everything was a blur, like vertigo. He had no idea how long it was until the haze lifted and he reconnected with the real world.

His legs were adorned with stitches and covered in bandages, wrists still badly bruised. He was in his own room, on his own bed. The clock on the wall said it was 11:30, though AM or PM, he couldn't tell. He saw a tube going into his arm, attached to one of their limited IV bags. It must have been far worse than he thought. He didn't hear the door open, and was unaware of it until he saw the Medic looming over him.

"Tell me what happened, Pfadfinder."

The Scout relayed what he could remember, watching Medic's expression get progressively grim. He knew what that meant, before Medic said anything, he knew.

Their Engineer was missing… captured by that RED.

The RED had done his homework. Take the Engineer, disable their sentries. Disable the fastest of them, ensure that they cannot retrieve him without being noticed.

Scout lay back against the pillow after Medic departed. But all he could see was red.


	2. Chapter 2

Various guns were strewn over the table, the Sniper cleaning them meticulously. He was working on their injured Scout's scattergun when he finally noticed the pacing Medic. He set the gun down and looked up, resting his chin on one hand. Pacing was not something their resident genius did often, so it usually meant bad news when he was. After watching him pace for a good ten minutes, Sniper finally spoke up.

"How bad is 'e, Sheila?"

That stopped the Medic in his tracks, long enough to give the Aussie Sniper one nasty glare.

"His legs are _eine Verwirrung_. I honestly don't know if our _Pfadfinder_ will walk, let alone run, anytime soon."

The Medic pulled up a chair, sitting across the sea of projectile weaponry, opposite the Sniper. Neither of them were looking particularly optimistic over the whole thought. And they were both thinking the same thing. What if their Scout never ran again? Had the Spy crippled him so much that he would not be able to walk, let alone run? And what about their missing Engineer? What happened to him? Was he alive? Or had he been forcefully 'recruited' by the RED Team? Their faces betrayed their thoughts, though they said nothing about it.

"….how's 'is mind, Sheila?"

The Medic was caught a little off guard by that question. He was not exactly skilled in terms of psychology, but he at least could read faces, body language. Something was better than nothing.

"I am…unsure. If it has affected him, Tucker is doing an amazing job at hiding it."

"Maybe it hasn't hit 'im yet."

Their Scout was never exactly one to hide what he was thinking. He was loud, bratty, snide, sarcastic, and once in a long while he would say something strangely intelligent – just to screw with their heads a bit. He wasn't the type to hide it all, if he had a problem, everyone would know about it. He had spent many an hour in their Engineer's workshop, bitching and ranting, though it usually would end with a pat on the head or a vaguely teasing butt-smack and a few kind words before he was kicked out.

After a long pause, the Sniper picked up the scattergun and started to clean it again.

The Scout lay in bed, fresh bandages on his legs. He raised his hand, his half-lidded eyes staring at the dark band around his wrist. Here he was, confined to bed, a prisoner in his own room. In a perfect world, the Engineer would be at his bedside. But he was alone. His focus shifted back to the bruises. Had the Spy done more than just tie him up and slice his legs to pieces? His blood went cold at the thought, and yet he tried to banish it from his mind. The RED Spy. Flicking his butterfly knife open and closed, circling with a cigarette in his mouth and a madman grin. Quickly, the Scout shook his head and let his arm drop back to his side, squeezing his eyes shut and frantically trying to think of something different.

An hour passed, then two, then three, the Scout having slipped into dreams bound together with extension cords and electrical tape – all painted in red.

It was dark when he opened his eyes, early hours of the morning dark. Scout slowly sat up, now unable to return to sleep. He stretched his arms and fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand. Upon finding it, he flicked the switch.

Nothing happened.

Blood drained from his face and he tried it again, and again, and about ten more times hoping that it would work. He almost froze, looking around the barely lit room, hoping to find it completely empty. His heart started to pound in his chest. Darkness was how the RED Spy had caught him the first time. Failed light switch, deceptive shadows. He was praying that the Spy wasn't in the room, watching him now. The Scout groped in the darkness, reaching by the bed, looking for his bat.

That bat. For the barest moment, his mind wandered to the dented, aluminum bat. It was the one thing he kept from home, the one thing they let him keep. It was a reminder of the days running in the streets, he and his older brothers, all like wild dogs charging around their territory, looking for something to fight. That bat had saved his life long before he came to this little hellhole, and many a time had it saved him here.

But now he couldn't find it.

Like the pistol, it was gone. Scout fumbled on both sides of the bed, reaching around, looking frantically for his bat.

In the dark, he felt a gloved hand grab his wrist, right where the bruises were. Before he could open his mouth to scream, a piece of duct-tape was slapped over his lips, muffling any cries for help. When he tried to pull the tape off, the Spy grasped both of his hands, flipping the boy onto his stomach and binding his hands behind his back.

"You have cause quite a few problems for me and mine, petit garcon."

The Scout squirmed uselessly, his legs stinging in pain every time he tried to move them. He had no idea what the RED Spy was planning, and hoped it didn't involve clothing being removed. He was flipped back so he was staring right into the Spy's madman eyes, the smell of smoke heavy in the room now.

"Go to sleep for a little while, petit garcon…"

A rag was once again pressed over his nose; the Scout didn't stand a chance.

Medic snapped his gloves on while he was on his way to check on the young Scout. It was much like doing his rounds when he had been at Redmoor, though fortunately there was only one patient. Part of him hoped that the kid would be more willing to talk, open up if there was something really tearing into him, save for the pain in his legs.

He looked at the door to the Scout's room for a moment. It had his name spray-painted on, with all sorts of baseball memorabilia taped on. He had a few autographs, a picture or too. There was a fuzzy, off color photo of eight boys, the smallest one of them being their Scout. After a moment, Medic opened the door.

The room was empty, blankets tossed all over the bed like there had been a scuffle. Bandages were lying in shreds on the floor, the lamp cord cut. There was a cigarette butt on the floor.

But the Scout was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

"Tucker, hey, you okay?"

Strong hands helped him up off the concrete, and brushed him off. Young blue eyes looked up at the blurry faces, obscured by some force or another. Seven figures. None other than his seven brothers. He felt sore all over, and he wobbled a little on his feet. The same brother who helped him to his feet also picked him up.

"You know you're not big enough to fight like the rest of us."

His oldest brother, Steve. Always had that scolding tone of voice, like he was a father. But he never raised his voice, never hit. He watched out for all his siblings, especially his youngest. A young Tucker folded his arms, wincing at the bruises.

"It'll be okay, kid. One day you'll catch up to us."

Another voice, another sibling, Michael, walking lazily with his hands holding his head.

Everything was as it should be. The sights and smells of Boston, though he longed for the streets of Brooklyn, where he was born and spent the first seven years of his life before they moved. The group of teenagers, and one pre-teen, all of various ages and heights, save for the youngest, who was thin as a twig and pale as snow, all strolled down the streets on their way home. They were a team, a band, and they always looked out for each other…

Things began to twist, the walls of buildings melting and distorting. Color began to run and mix, everything starting to progressively fade into black and red. Everything shifted and started to regain focus. There was a bright light shining in his face, slightly obscured by a RED Medic looming over him, injecting something into his arm. The Scout felt so sluggish, his body tied down to a cot by various medical restraints. He could plainly see the RED logo on the wall, but his body felt too heavy to struggle. He felt no pain in his legs, presumably from what the Medic had injected him with.

Standing at the foot of the cot was the RED Spy.

"That will be enough, docteur."

Whereas the Medic was the leader on the BLU team, it was clear who was in charge on this end. The RED Medic said nothing as he left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. The Scout's world was still spinning a bit, the room wavering around them. The Spy adjusted his gloves and flicked open his butterfly knife, toying with it a bit.

"You have caused quite a bit of trouble for me and mine. Who knew that a runty little scout could cause so many problems?"

The Spy started to circle like a predator, tossing his knife up in the air. Scout's half-lidded eyes tried wearily to follow him. Every movement seemed to take so much effort.

"Now, you're going to talk, petit garcon. You're going to tell me everything about your team, your bases, everything."

His senses were starting to clear. Things were becoming sharper, clearer. The world was spinning less. But his legs were starting to hurt. It was gradual at first, and then it started to grow. The Spy continued to circle, a grin on his lips as he lit another cigarette. He tapped the flat part of his blade against the Scout's bandaged legs, causing the boy to squirm and bite his lip.

"Hurt, didn't it? If you start talking, I could be persuaded to call our medic back in to ease some of that pain."

The Scout glared. No way in hell was he going to start talking, even if his legs were starting to feel like someone had shot them with a nail gun. The Spy tapped his legs again, harder this time, earning a pained squeak from the BLU captive. He kept tapping, poking, the pain intensifying with every contact. The Scout squirmed and writhed, the leather restraints keeping him firmly in place. But still he would not speak. Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes into hours. The pain got worse, and every time the Spy touched his bandaged legs, white-hot pain shot up his nerves, over and over until he could no longer keep from crying out.

He was nothing if not stubborn, as the RED Spy was learning. But he had more than one trick up his expensive sleeves. He had done his homework, and his grin only got more malicious as he lit up another cigarette. The Spy picked up a folder from a nearby end table and opened it.

"Tucker Reid; age 20; born in Brooklyn, New York City; born two months premature; youngest of eight; moved to Boston, Massachusetts when you were seven…"

That had the Scout's attention. How did he get his hands on something like this? No Spy had ever gotten the intelligence while he was on watch. What if he took it while he was unconscious in the workshop? The Spy took a moment to glance at his captive before he went on to list a long history of felonies, mostly vandalism and the result of either starting or ending a fight.

"It says here you beat a police officer senseless with that dented bat of yours… is that what landed you here? A creative way to evade the draft, though it only got you out of one warzone and into another…"

The Scout could remember that plain as day. Riot near the house. His second oldest brother, James, was killed in that brawl. And Steve broke his arm in three places. He didn't intend to beat the crap out of the police. All he saw was a gun aimed at his brothers, everything else was mad instinct.

"Interesting…."

The Spy chuckled darkly and moved to the door, tapping at it twice.

"It says you're afraid of large dogs…I wonder why."

On the other side of the door came a loud, deep barking. The BLU Scout tensed, his entire body paling, eyes fixed on the door. Every part of him wanted to run, he wanted to get away. Despite the pain in his legs, he struggled to get free. Away from the door.

The Spy laughed, and slowly opened the door.

"You're pacing again, Sheila."

The Medic's usual task of wearing a hole in the floor with his boots was interrupted by a sneaky Sniper slipping his arms around the other man's waist. The Medic narrowed his eyes and folded his arms, but that did little to deter the gunman.

"There has been no RED activity, not even a ransom note. They took two of our men and we have nothing to answer that!"

He tried pacing again, but the Sniper held him back.

"Means we gotta get smarter. We need to know what they're up to." The Aussie's charm did wonders for the nerves, even with two men missing. The BLU Medic almost relaxed, leaning slightly into his touch. Then he snapped to his senses.

"Let go of me."

"No."


	4. Chapter 4

Sniper stared up at the ceiling, moonlight pouring in through the open window. While anyone else would be basking in the afterglow as the German doctor slept next to him, he was thinking. REDs had never taken prisoners before. They have never shown an interest in their Engineer, aside from trying to bring down his sentries. Nor had they cared too much about the Scout, except to shoot at his heels as he sprinted off with their intel. So why now? What had prompted the sudden and stealthy capture of not one but two of their men?

What set the REDs off?

The Sniper thought long and hard about this. There had been no word from the RED team, no ransom note. Why not take the Medic? Or the Pyro? Why the zippy little bastard and his wrench-weilding boyfriend? So far, the answers had eluded him. What hadn't eluded him was the Medic's hand 'sneakily' drifting down below his waist.

"Ready for round two, eh Sheila?"

The stitches had torn open, blood seeping through the bandages. The Scout didn't notice any of it. His eyes were focused straight ahead at the gnashing teeth and mad eyes of the RED team's rottweiler. His entire body was paralyzed in fear, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. He had been moved from the bed to a chair, wrists taped together behind the back of the chair, his ankles taped to the legs. Every warning bell in his head told him to run away, to flee as fast as he could.

"Hey, Tucker, wanna come over to the scrapyard with us?"

A seven-year-old Tucker looked up at two of his big brothers, his bright blue eyes shining with excitement. William whispered something to Paul, who nodded and smirked a bit. The former, with wild eyes and bleached hair took the boy's hand, while the latter trotted on ahead. They were still in Brooklyn at this point, it was right before the move. Boxes were piled up in the walkway by the front door, and Tucker followed William through the maze and outside.

The sun had just set and the streetlights were turning on. It wasn't too much of a walk to the scrapyard, and the three of them stared for a while from the other side of the chain-link fence. After a moment, Paul hopped over the fence, and helped his youngest brother over. William wasn't too far behind. He took his younger brother's hand and they started to roam among the towering piles of cars and metal. Paul disappeared into a junked car, rooting around on the inside, fishing for buried treasure.

Then they heard the growling.

From around the corner, trailing rusted and broken chains, were two massive dogs, all claws and fangs. William panicked, letting go of Tucker's hand and running as fast as he could towards the fence. Paul bolted from the car, a stolen radio in hand. Tucker turned to run after them as the dogs charged.

He didn't stand a chance.

The world was a blur of teeth and blood, biting and barking. Time meant nothing, there were only dogs and pain. The next thing he knew he was staring at a hospital ceiling, bandaged and delirious…

The rottweiler snapped at the Scout's face, causing him to yelp and recoil, heart pounding in his chest. The RED Medic was holding the leash, though it was badly frayed and looked like it would snap at any second. That's what terrified him the most. Another attack. Maybe he'd have a set of scars on front to match the ones on his back, the only secret he'd ever keep from the Engineer. He'd take that secret to the grave, or so he had hoped. He wouldn't be able to hide it if he asked though…

The dog got closer, barking loud and snapping at the captive's ankles. Now it could smell the blood, and that made it more vicious.

"Are you going to talk now?"

The RED Spy was right behind him, whispering right in his ear. When the Scout remained silent, the Spy motioned to his comrade, who let the mad dog close enough to sink its jaws into the captive's calf. The Scout screamed in pain, eyes squeezing shut. The Medic pulled his dog back, blood all over its muzzle, starting to pool on the floor. The Spy put one hand on his terrified captive's shoulder.

"Start talking, or I'll let it off the leash."

A blur of blood and teeth, horrific scars all over his back, the mad eyes of junkyard dogs…

"….I….. the… our…our Medic…"

The Scout didn't know the first thing about the Medic, aside from the fact that he hated people and would violently defend the Sniper. But he learned one good thing from his brothers was the art of bull-shitting. He was a master of it, and he was praying that the REDs would believe it.

A shot of morphine, and the removal of the dog, was more than a satisfactory answer. The RED Medic patched up his legs and he was returned to the bed-prison.

"If you cooperate tomorrow, Monsieur Tucker Reid, then maybe we won't need to use the dog at all."

The Spy left him to what was left of the night.

"Tucker! Oh god, Tucker are you alright?"

In his dreams, beyond the mad dog nightmares, he could hear Steve calling to him.


	5. Chapter 5

Half-lidded eyes stared up at the ceiling, blinking occasionally. How much longer could he lie to the REDs before they figured it out? And how long had it been? How many days of mad dog-induced bullshitting had passed? His eyes were watering, but why he did not know. He couldn't sleep, but he blamed it on the nightmares. Once in a while, his hands would shake, and even rarer, his legs would twitch. He didn't even realize what was happening to him half the time. He knew the dog was no longer used, and the RED Spy rarely came to simply harass him. Occasionally, the Medic would come in, change the bandages on his legs, shoot him up with morphine, then leave.

Today was different.

RED Spy strode in with a fresh cigarette, blowing a puff of smoke. The Scout was expecting to be taped to the chair, but the Spy just leaned against the door. There was silence for the longest time before the red-suited man even moved. He produced a vial from his suit jacket, and a thin syringe. He set them both on the end table and adjusted his gloves before lighting another smoke. Had the Scout been looking closely, he would have noticed the tiniest bullet hole in the Spy's sleeve.

Again, there was silence, and no movement.

"You have lied to me, Monsieur Reid."

The Scout's blood ran cold, and his eyes widened. How did he…? He's a Spy, stupid question. What was going to happen to him now?

The Spy reached under the bed and pulled out a thick piece of wood. He set it on the bed between the Scout's ankles, then removed the restraints around them, only to secure his legs to the block of wood. The Scout's blue eyes were wide in panic, struggling uselessly, wanting to run. His legs burned in pain, and he almost could feel stitches tearing loose.

"Do you know what I do to liars, Monsieur Reid?"

The door opened.

Standing there, in a RED uniform… was his Engineer.

"G-Gus!"

The Engineer did not look particularly happy, holding his wrench in his hand. The Scout squirmed.

"Gus! Please! Say something!"

The Spy was grinning like a madman, flicking open his butterfly knife. At his command, the Engineer slowly walked into the room, an expression of apology in his features. The Spy held his knife out like a pointer, motioning at the Scout's bound feet.

"This is going to hurt, Monsieur Reid."

The Engineer pulled back, wrench raised to swing, but he stopped. There was a faint look of hope in the Scout's watery eyes, which now were constantly streaming tears for reasons he did not yet know. The Spy scowled, stabbing the knife into the Engineer's arm, snatching away the wrench and screaming in his native tongue.

[You stupid worthless Engineer! I should have stabbed you instead of captured you!]

The RED Spy swung the wrench as hard as he could – shattering the Scout's right ankle.

Pain exploded in his leg, and he screamed, a freakish, blood-curdling sound that echoed throughout the RED's base. He writhed in his restraints, eyes squeezing shut.

After what seemed like an eternity, he stopped feeling pain. His eyes stopped watering, he stopped screaming. When he opened his eyes, he saw the RED Spy unconscious on the floor, and the Engineer…

His Engineer

…was injecting some morphine into his arm. The restraints had been undone. He gently picked up the crippled boy, holding him close.

When the Scout regained his senses again, he was back in his own room, in bed. No medical restraints. No smell of cigarette smoke. His right leg was in a cast. If anyone could fix it, it was the good Medic. He weakly glanced around the room, his heart swelling and his cheeks flushing when he saw none other than the Engineer at his bedside.

"Hey… hey Gus… you awake…?"

The Scout was vaguely aware of his eyes watering, though he felt hot, sweating. The Engineer looked up, having been dozing in the chair. He placed his hand on the Scout's, smiling.

"Just rest now, Tucker. Yer gonna be okay."

The Scout lay back, one weary hand reaching up to wipe his eyes. He didn't know why they still watered, or why he was sweating buckets. So much of him hoped it was just temporary…

…but the rest of him won the internal debate, and he fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

He was hungry, but couldn't eat. He was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. He was restless, but couldn't go anywhere. He was irritable, uneasy, and prone to lengthy periods of depression. He remained in bed, confined to a mattress prison. All he could do was lie there, look out the window, and be jealous of the birds. Crows and hawks. They could be free out there, fly around, didn't have to worry about this goddamn blood-game.

Stop it, you're going to hurt yourself.

The voice of reason in his head scolded, sounding disappointed. The Scout folded his arms and looked at his legs. One was in a cast, and in a sling. The other was bandaged, and healing nicely according to the good Medic. He was still bedridden. Nothing to do but lie there and shine his bat. He looked out the window again. There was a crow on the fence. Fucking crow. Sitting there. Mocking him with its freedom. With its wings, its open sky. Had nothing to fear but a hawk and a stray shot.

Shut up, you're being a hateful little wretch.

The Scout frowned, looking up like he could roll his eyes into his skull and glare at his sensible voice. He folded his arms and leaned back against the pillow, hoping to try to get some sleep. It didn't work, as usual. Not that he expected anything different. He hadn't slept well in the past freakin' week. All he saw was red and dog eyes. Left him up all night with wet eyes and jittery hands. Though the shaking was getting worse. God, he needed something to take all this stress away. Something to make him sleep and maybe never wake up.

Don't think like that, you'll make a lot of people sad.

Like who? He asked the voice, irritated. His eyes were starting to water. Where the hell was the Medic with some freakin' painkillers?!

Gus will miss you.

The Scout glared at his voice of reason, his temper flaring. His hands were shaking again, and he could feel his toes twitch in the cast. God damn it. Where the hell was the Medic?! Ugh! He'd just have to get some freakin' morphine by his own damn self! That plan was quickly cut short by his inability to move. The Scout rolled onto his side, his leg still in a sling. He wiped his eyes on his pillow, gripping it tightly. He couldn't control this craving he had. Fuck! Medic!

You don't need anything, you're fine.

"LIKE HELL I AM!!!!"

The Scout's scream sent everyone running to his room, finding the spindly boy clutching his pillow with tears streaming from his eyes – dark circles having formed under them from days of sleeping poorly or not sleeping at all. His hands were shaking, and he was sweating buckets.

"Tucker! Hey! Scout!"

The Engineer was the first one to his side, helping to pry the young Scout from the pillow. The Scout didn't seem to recognize who was touching him, and he went on the attack, though in his weakened state, it was all useless flailing. The Engineer held him down, the Medic swiftly moving in with some sort of sedative. His flailing stopped, his movements slowing down, and the Scout sank into blissful unconsciousness. The Engineer sat back, looking from the Medic to the sleeping Scout.

"What happened to him, Sheila?"

It was the Sniper who spoke from the doorway, leaning on the frame. The Medic carefully checked the Scout over.

"Lack of sleep, I can see that clear as day. He hasn't been eating, has he, Gus?"

The Engineer nodded.

"Thinkin' it's stress?"

The Medic straightened up and folded his arms.

"If not stress, then the REDs might have done something to him that he can't get over…"

No one liked the Medic's tone. It was an option they didn't want to think about. Though the Engineer had been on the REDs' side, unwillingly, he never knew what the Spy was doing to his Scout. But he also hadn't been overly willing to describe what happened to him. Aside from the shattered ankle, no one knew what had happened.

"Do you think he was…."

The Sniper let that sentence trail off. Everyone was thinking it, as much as they did not want to. Is that what happened? There were bruises on the Scout's wrists…

A sixteen-year old Tucker broke ahead of the group, hands wrapped in bandages and shirt not much more than scraps barely hanging onto his body. His brothers were close behind them, his brother James wielding a shiny new aluminum bat. The pack of brothers darted down an alleyway and straight into another charging group of street kids. It was a war, a monster of a brawl that the lankey teen ran straight into.

He held his arm out, clothes-lining a kid not much older than him. In a flash, the other boy was on his feet, a switchblade in his hand. The two leapt at each other, bodies colliding and bones snapping and breaking. There was blood and broken teeth combined with the flashing of blades and weaponry.

"Best night ever, eh, Tucker?!" James shouted, the bat already red with blood.

No one saw the flashing lights or hear the sirens. It was all a blur, until he heard gunshots. Things seemed to move in slow motion. James stumbled, blood erupting from a spot on his chest. He dropped the bat and stared in shock, sinking to his knees Before Tucker knew what he was doing, the bat was in his hands and he was leaping right at that gun. He could feel it connect solidly with the cop's head…

The Scout jolted awake, eyes wide and sweat dripping off his forehead. It was dark out, and the Engineer was asleep in a chair at his bedside. He looked around, spying a vial and a syringe on the nightstand. The Scout snatched up the little vial and looked at it in the low light.

Sweet zombie Jesus yeah…


	7. Chapter 7

He saw…

…shapes.

Faces he should know, but yet he did not recognize. Voices that he instantly should have recognized were replaced with a harsh, terrifying cackle ringing in his ears. He couldn't move, couldn't see. He couldn't fight back or call for help. There was a hand on the back of his neck, holding him down. Who was doing this? Why couldn't he move?

Why was no one coming to save him?

…he woke…

The Engineer was awake, at his bedside. One hand was holding his own, concern visible in his features. The Scout felt terrible. He was cold, and exhausted. His eyes, still bearing the dark circles of insomnia, wearily traced up to the

His

Engineer's face. The Scout forced a smile.

"…hey Engie…" He murmured, his voice almost slurred. The Engineer smiled at him and gently stroked his cheek.

"You feelin' alright, Tucker?"

The Scout slowly nodded, cautiously sitting. His leg was still in a sling, but there was writing on his cast. Little things from the rest of the BLU team. He could barely read most of them, and didn't have much time before the Engineer squeezed his hand, drawing his attention back up to the older man. He noticed something. There were questions behind his concerned expression.

"…Tucker, what happened to you…?"

There was a long silence. The Scout felt first a slight annoyance. Everyone was asking him that same goddamn question! Why was getting tortured and mutilated so interesting?! As he let his mind think this way, his expression turned to one of rage. He swatted the Engineer's hand away from him, his eyes starting to water once again. His hands started to shake, and he raged…

"What the hell do you think happened?! I got kidnapped and tied to a god damned bed! I got my legs ripped to fucking hell and my ankle is in TINY-ASS PIECES!! What do you want me to say!? That I'm hiding some horrible secret!? Do you want me to just open up and bear my god damn soul like a naïve little bitch?!"

The Engineer was shocked to say the least. There was no way that the Scout would tell them. But there was something wrong with them, he could tell just by this outburst. There was no talking to him now. Defeated, and looking a little crushed, the Engineer just stood up and left, leaving the Scout to scream and rage until his throat went sore.

When the Engineer was gone, the Scout reached under his pillow, and drew out the vial and the syringe.

"…need it so bad now… god…"


	8. Chapter 8

Days passed. The Scout was barely aware of any passage of time that wasn't the time between one hit to the next. The vial was still stashed away, along with the needle. He didn't know if or when people were around, or when they were speaking to him. It was almost in a constant state of vertigo or delirium. But when it was silent, when he started to _need_ it, he reached for the syringe and vial.

It was _his_ drug.

The voice of reason had been replaced with one of addiction. More. More. More. Always wanting more.

He was starting to listen.

The Medic grumbled to himself, taking a clip-board off the wall in his makeshift medbay. Inventory. He hated doing it, but no one else could be trusted with such a task. He needed everything in order, and it had to be absolutely perfect. No room for error. Without an Aussie distraction, he started. As the minutes droned on in the silence, he started to wonder about their Scout's strange behavior as of late. Violent outbursts, not eating – or if he was, he wasn't eating a lot, insomnia, watery eyes. His mind started ticking through things that would cause side effects like that.

One, two, three….

They did not know what the RED Spy had done to him. Was it only torture? Were they blowing this out of proportion and it was just some torn muscles and a broken ankle? Or did he really have his way with the boy?

….six?

The Medic stopped his train of thought and counted again. Six. Only six? There were seven in there just a few days ago. He hadn't used any on him…

…self…

"MEDIC!!"

The clipboard clattered to the floor, and the medbay doors swung closed.

The Medic came running into the room, finding the Scout on the floor in a mess of his own vomit. It was the Engineer who had shouted, and he quickly backed up so the Medic could move in. The Scout was in terrible shape. His pulse was weak, his pupils like pinpoints. His fingertips and lips has started to tinge a faint blue. His breathing was shallow and faint.

But he was still breathing.

The Medic knew what this was. This is what had happened to his missing vial of morphine. This is what the REDs had done. Their Medic probably shot the boy full of morphine while he was being tortured. He was hooked fast, and then when he was returned here, it was gone. But how had he gotten the vial and a syringe? The BLU doctor let these thoughts run through his head as he worked on their overdosed Scout. He was alive, he could recover.

But first, they had to get everything out of his system.

When he knew what was happening next, there was a dim light in the room. He smelled the sterile air of the medbay, and the silence. He tried to move, then started to freak out when he saw himself strapped to a cot with various medical restraints. He looked around frantically for the RED Spy, and saw the BLU logo. He paled and screamed for someone to let him out.

Outside the medbay, the BLU team had gathered, listening to the thrashing and screaming. The Engineer folded his arms and leaned against the wall, but his eyes never left the doors. The

…his…

Scout was in there, combating his own demons. And he was out here, just listening to it all. He couldn't go in and fight them off, couldn't chase his nightmares away this time. As much as he wanted to, he just couldn't. He wanted to just throw open the doors and be the hero, but this was not his fight. The Engineer never looked away from the doors, he couldn't. Others may have left to get something to eat or drink, but he never moved from his spot. He couldn't move.

He couldn't abandon the

His

Scout now.


	9. Chapter 9

The days passed.

The Scout had been moved back to his room. The worst of it had passed, and all he had to do was lay there and recover. He had started eating again, and sleeping normally. His dreams were no longer painted with red and tape. He stopped smelling cigarette smoke. Slowly but surely, he was healing, mentally and physically. The bruises and puncture marks had disappeared, bones were mending. More than once, the good Medic had caught the Scout limping around the room, testing his ankle, trying to get back on his feet as soon as possible.

Something did worry the BLU Medic. The RED team had been unusually quiet. One would have thought they would have struck while their Scout was down, but they had made no noise. Were they waiting for something to happen? And if so, what was their big plan? The RED Spy was a crafty bastard, and rightfully their leader. He was never without a plan or some fiendish plot…

"Tucker! What did I just tell you!?"

The Scout smiled sheepishly and limped back to bed.

"How long will it be before I can run, doc?"

The Medic frowned a bit. He expected this question, and the ankle was healing nicely. But he was cautious. The RED Spy had taken quite a bit of interest in their Scout. But why?

"You should be able to walk in a few days. Running… it might be a while longer"

Their Scout was born to run. It was built into his frame, his very being. He needed to run. It was what he could do, what he was good at. He needed to be mobile, to move all the time. He was getting so bored with staying in bed, being in one place. He liked the outside, the sky and the air and open areas. Sometimes, if the light and mist caught him right, one could almost say he had wings on his feet.

"Tucker? You home?"

A seventeen-year-old Tucker was somewhat occupied when he heard his father calling. Occupied, well, with his boyfriend's dick in his mouth. He didn't even hear the sounds of someone coming up the stairs. In fact, he wasn't even sure what was going on until a strong hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed him against the wall. The other boy just pulled his pants back up and ran from the house. Tucker met a fist to his eye, his father shouting in rage at his 'little fag son'. He found himself sleeping out in the yard that night, shivering in the rain.

In the morning, there were men in white clothes, there to take him away to be treated. Tucker was poked with needles, his temples shocked with electrodes, a message pounded into his head to like women.

There's nothing wrong with me!

Six months later, he was returned home. Fully 'cured.'

The Scout propped the pillow up against his headboard, picking up the book that the Medic had left him. With nothing else to do, he opened it and started reading.

The passage of time was different to the recovering. Sun rose, sun set, and the world revolved around the Scout's bed. The day his cast came off though, he was the happiest boy on Earth. He could walk. No running, the Medic had told him, but he could walk. And the first place he went was down to the Engineer's workshop. He hadn't been down there since the REDs' attack, but he knew that was where the

His

Engineer was. He tapped at the door, and when he got permission to enter, he opened the door and nearly sailed into the arms of the waiting Engineer. Everything was alright. The world, and that moment, was absolutely perfect. The Scout clung to the Engineer, just happy to be walking. To be out of his bed, and able to move. It would be a while before he would be able to run, or run without hurting himself, but that didn't matter. He spent the night in the Engineer's bed, in his arms.

I'd do anything….

He closed his eyes and rested his head on the Engineer's chest.

For a brief moment, he thought he smelled smoke…


	10. Chapter 10

"It's all your fault, you little fag."

A lot can happen in six months. Six months in a white room with cushioned walls, being told that girls were good and boys were bad. Six months of being told that everything you felt that was good and right was sinful and wrong. Six months of electrodes to the temples and lightning to the brain. One visitor in those six months, Steve, and only to bring him bad news, and a set of dog tags. James was dead. Now Michael was dead. Six months of isolation, of trying so hard to fight it off and eventually being too worn to keep going.

And then he was sent home. His brothers had all moved out, moved on. His father lost his job not even a day after Tucker had come home. Then everything was his fault. Everything was wrong because he was home. His father started to drink more, and his mother took the worst of it.

"Stop protectin' him! The little queer fucked everything over!"

On a full moon night at the start of October, Tucker took a backpack of his stuff, and his bat, and ran away from…

The ringing bell snapped the Scout out of his little daydream. The game had begun. The Medic had warned him to be careful. Keeping a firm hand on his scattergun, he started down into the tunnels. He tried not to land too hard on his bad leg, and so far things had gone well. He could hear gunfire up above him, the distinctive rocket fire from the Engineer's sentries, followed by the explosions of them hitting their mark.

The Scout smirked and rounded the corner at a slow jog. The intel room was not too far away. This would be a piece of cake.

Get your ass moving, fag-boy

He quickly shook off his father's voice and turned into the intel room, then slammed on the brakes, feezing in terror.

Three rottweilers were sitting right in front of the intel.

How the fuck did REDs get dogs?!

Ha! Not so strong now, are ya, queer!

The Scout took a few steps back, the dogs advancing, teeth bared and growling. No way, no goddamn way. Before he knew it, he was pressed against the wall, and the dogs were nearly surrounding him. His mind was in a panic and without thinking, he shot at them. It missed, and they leapt at him, all fangs and mad eyes.

He improvised.

The bat swung. It wasn't enough to kill them when he swung, but it gave him time. When the coast was clear, he ran for the intel. In a flash, he swung it over his shoulder and raced for the exit. The alarms had started to ring, and the RED team was returning to their base, to try cornering and murdering the Scout. It was all adrenaline for him now. He'd beat the dogs, who were starting to recover and chase.

Run you little fag! Haha! Run away!

Shut up!

The tunnel ahead became lit with fire. The Scout stopped in his tracks, starting to step back. The fire shut off, the RED Pyro moving towards him. The Scout aimed his scattergun and fired, and again, and again, and again until his gun was empty. And the Pyro was still advancing, close enough that the Scout could have touched his flamethrower. The Scout bit his lip, and then felt himself hit a wall. Or rather, a person.

The RED Spy.

"Grab him."

The Pyro reached out and grabbed the Scout, pinning his arms behind his back, making him face the masked smoking man. The Spy flicked open his knife and lit another cigarette, putting the old one out on the Scout's temple, causing him to squirm. Without warning, the blade flicked across his chest, then down in a sweeping curve.

He screamed.

The knife continued on without stopping, an elegant design being scratched into the Scout's skin.

Without warning, the Pyro let go of the Scout and crumpled. There was a cloud, and a whish-ing sound, the BLU Spy having come down to the Scout's rescue. The RED Spy narrowed his eyes.

"Beaumont…"

"…Jaquimo."

The Scout slid to the ground, his shirt staining with blood. The Spies were at a standoff, though the RED seemed to be content to let the BLU return the bleeding Scout to their base. He dragged the Pyro back to his own, and the day's match ended.

Hey, queer, wake up you fag.

Shut up… don't…

There was not a scratch on his body when he woke up, finding himself curled up and clinging to the Engineer. The Scout looked up and smiled, holding him tighter.

…but he smelled… smoke…

"HE—"

A piece of tape was slapped over his mouth before he could scream for help.


	11. Chapter 11

The Scout pulled his shirt over his head, getting dressed somewhat sleepily. He rubbed his eyes and reached for his pants, brushing some of the dirt and dust off of them. He felt unclean, and his clothes were a mess. He discarded the bandages around his knuckles, then reached for some clean ones. They were bleeding. Why were they all bloody now? And they hurt. But why were they…

Someone held him down. He couldn't move, couldn't scream. He struggled, but his attacker was just too strong…

He ripped the bandage off the roll and finished wrapping his knuckles, and then he slipped on his socks and shoes. He brushed himself off and slung his bag over his shoulder, his scattergun in hand. He felt so sluggish and slow, a dangerous thing for a runner to be feeling. And he felt so tired, like he hadn't slept in days. But why? Nothing had changed. He wasn't on morphine again. All he had done was curl up with his Engie.

Hands pulled his shirt up over his face, then over his arms, like a shoddy set of restraints.

"Woah, Tucker, you look like hell."

The Sniper was the one who spoke, breaking the Scout out of his little world. Everyone else was ready to go, now staring at their unusually late arrival. The Scout blinked and rubbed his eyes again. The Engineer looked at him, concern not exactly hidden behind his features.

"I'm fine. Just… didn't sleep well last night."

His pants were around his ankles, and someone was keeping him down. He felt the ground beneath him.

Fingers snapping in front of his face, causing him to jump back, stumble, and land flat on his ass with a yelp. Before anyone could move in to help him up, the bell rang. The match had begun. The Scout hopped to his feet and ran out the door.

It was normal, or rather, normal by any other standards. In and out three times, the RED team seemed content to just let the Scout run in and steal their intel. He thought nothing of it, his mind in a bit of a fog. He was barely aware of what had been going on until the bell rang at the end of the day to end it. Without a second glance to any other member of the crew, he retreated into his room and closed the door, lying on his bed – fully clothed.

Someone was on top of him, laughing in his ear. Someone was speaking in a voice he knew, a voice he understood and trusted. Someone kissed him, then bit and chewed almost playfully on his lips.

"Anyone notice that Tucker was a little…out of it today?"

The Sniper was the one who brought it up, though everyone had been thinking it.

"He was out of it, and his clothes were a mess." Came notes from the Pyro – Stu – as he removed his gasmask.

"He looked...tired."

It was the Engineer who had spoken up. That alone caused a silence to settle amongst them. Something had changed in their Scout just overnight. Their Scout, who would normally be here with the rest of them, talking, taking a healthy amount of abuse and teasing, was in his own room. Sleeping, probably. He should have been with his Engineer, all puppy-like and defensive.

But he wasn't.

The Scout closed his eyes after staring at the door for ten minutes. He kicked his shoes onto the floor and curled around his pillow.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.


	12. Finale

_I don't want this…_

_Stop… _

_Please…. _

Then it was over. His assailant gone, and he was left lying on the bed. No bruises, no cuts, just a deep feeling of shame and regret. The Scout lay there, staring at the open window. He slowly sat up with a weak moan and gathered his clothes. He was naked from the waist down, but he could still feel hands under his shirt, touching and pinching. He couldn't tell them, couldn't look the others in the eye and say what had been happening. He was too ashamed.

He pulled some spare clothes from a pile and dressed, intending to wash them later. He pulled his hat low over his eyes before he left the room. He was late again, late to the masquerade where he played the fool.

_Let me do that…_

_Let me be their fool…_

Eyes fell upon him as he wandered in. He could feel them, feel their emotions.

_God, did they know? _

"You going to be ready, Tucker?"

It was the Pyro who asked before putting on his mask.

_No, I won't… _

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

He went to his locker without looking up and without another word. He put his headset on, feeling their eyes boring into the back of his head. God, make them stop looking at me! Make them just crack jokes and act like nothing is wrong! There's nothing wrong with me!

_Of course there is, you little queer_

_Shut up! _

He picked up his pistol, loaded it, and started wrapping his knuckles. Fuck! They were still staring at him! Jesus fucking Christ! Don't look at me!

_They know what you are, faggot. Little whoreboy_

_Shut up! _

He put his bat in its bag and slung it over his shoulder. He didn't notice his hands were shaking, or that his Engineer was slowly closing in.

_Maybe your doc wants to take you for a spin, like that Aussie… _

"God, just SHUT UP!!"

_Oh shit, that was out loud. _

The Scout turned around slowly, his eyes wide. It was now that he noticed that they weren't dressed to go out killing today. They were looking out for him.

_I don't need any help! _

_There's nothing wrong with me! _

Yet he found himself running into his Engineer's arms, clinging to the older man like a scared, frightened child. He felt so pathetic, so disgusting and rotten. He felt cold and uneasy, like he half-expected the Engineer to fling him away in disgust. But the Scout needed him, he _needed_ so badly to be held like he was a young boy, held tight and told that it would all be okay. He felt the Engineer gently stroke his hair, wrap his arms around him, hold him close.

His legs started to give, and the Engineer was there to hold him up briefly before helping him sit down. The Scout shut his eyes tight and his fingers locked, the fabric of the Engineer's clothes stretching with the boy's claw-like grip.

"Tucker, calm down… Shh, shh, it'll be alright."

_It'll all be okay now_

Every knife cut. Every needle puncture. Every broken bone. Every nightmare. Every bruise. Every set of eyes staring out of the dark at him. Every hand holding him down. It all started to flow away like water as he finally spoke freely about what the RED team had done to him. Everything he could remember, everything his body had told him when he would wake up in the dark, everything came spilling out in a jumble of words and emotion. He kept his eyes closed, for fear that the rest of the team would see him crying.

_What all happened to me…? _

There were flashes before his closed eyes. Hands pulling off his clothes, tape and wire and more hands holding him down. Tape over his mouth, keeping him from screaming. Shadowed faces with only grins and laughter in his ears. His body twisted and bent every way, fingers and dicks prodding and plundering almost every orifice. He was…

_Oh god_…

He was…

_God no…_

He paused in his story, taking a moment to press his face into the Engineer's chest. His breathing was panicked as the full realization of what really had happened.

_And had kept happening every night…_

_And he was too weak to fight the intruders off_

Hit him like a train. When he had recovered, and was ready to continue, the Engineer stopped him. It was over now. They all had listened, and needed no more details. The Engineer gently picked up their Scout and carried him to bed. It would be best to leave the room before anything exploded, or the plotting to commit a violent wave of homicides began.

That night, the Scout slept… and there were no nightmares to plague him.


End file.
